JonnyB’s private secret diary has moved.

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Posts are archived both here and on the new domain. Posts archived here have been stuffed around with quite a bit. So going to the new domain is probably best.

Boos ring out around the Village Pub.

“What...? What...?” I ask crossly. “That is what it says here. ‘What is the largest port in Basra? Iraq. I am merely reading what it says on the sheet.”

“Basra is in Iraq!”

“Yes but for all I know, Basra could also be some – some historic regional area or something. For which Iraq is the chief port. Like in... er well there is ‘Washington’ the state and ‘Washington’ the city. And the place on Tyneside,” I add, helpfully.

There is more booing. Neil, who is wearing a suit and has therefore been drafted in to help me read the quiz, suggests we skip this question. I gesture frantically to the Foxy Barmaid for another free pint of beer. We move to a controversy about chromosomes.

“There are twenty-three pairs,” I insist. “It says so on the sheet.”

“Thirty two!”

“There are not thirty-two. I mean – I know you’re from Norfolk...”

“We’ll accept thirty-two,” concedes Neil. He is weak. The LTLP and Mrs Short Tony, who also does science, glare at us. I realise that I have drunk half of my free pint already. I wave at the Foxy Barmaid to be ready for the next one.

The next question is in French. This throws me a bit. The following one is in Italian, which I am more comfortable with as it is ‘names of pizzas’. I place my empty glass under the pump in order to be helpful.

“Thanks for your help tonight,” the Well-Spoken Barman offers at the end. I reply that I enjoyed it very much but would perhaps not want to do it every time. Somebody approaches me to play the banjo at the Church Fete next year. I might win some lawn bowls equipment".

The door closes with a satisfying ‘thud’.

Set in to the eighteen-inch stone wall of the cottage, the safe is my insurance against the lawlessness of the modern world. We do not have a Bank in the Village, so I use my safe to store important documents, etc., such as the questions for tonight’s pub quiz.

I am the questionmaster!!! I have been especially selected from all the villagers for my natural authority and diction, plus the fact that I was quite drunk when the Well-Spoken Barman asked for volunteers. I have been thinking for a while that I should maybe do some community work, and this, coupled with being secretary of the snooker club, fits the bill nicely.

One of the problems with our modern society (apart from the lawlessness (see above)) is the fact that people do not care about their community. It is difficult to get volunteers, and when people do put their hands up it tends to be for the ‘glamour’ jobs like working with disabled children. Doing the pub quiz gets overlooked and what’s more I do not even get paid for it apart from in free beer all night.

I cannot deny that I am nervous however. I have not really been involved in a major quiz since the Nicholas Parsons debacle.

There is a knock at the door!!! It is Mrs Short Tony, visiting on a pretext.

“Have you got the questions yet?” she asks, her eyes darting around the kitchen. I know her game.

I tidy the house.

The LTLP and Toddler have been away for a few days in order to allow me to both catch up with some sleep and to get some work done. Clearly I have not done either of these things, having mainly been either playing snooker at my exclusive Snooker Club, watching the rugby at the Village Pub, or helping my friend Hetti with her Holiday Cottage Norfolk website.

There is a single portion left from yesterday’s continuing-economic-crisis meal. This time I had scraped all the mouldering stuff from the back of the fridge into a large pot, added some sausages and a packet sauce mix left over from the days when I used packet sauce mixes (best before date: March 2005, which I guess dates it two or three years earlier).

I slop the leftovers into a carton and ponder a bit before taking a felt-tip pen, scribbling ‘Casserole of Last Resort’ on the lid and chucking the whole thing in the freezer.

Truth be told, I have found the last few days on my own to be immensely fun and relaxing. I worry that this makes me a Bad Person (even more so than murdering those children). But sometimes a man needs a bit of a break from responsibilities. It has been good to be master of my own life for three days at least. It has recharged me; made me strong again.

Obviously now I need to tidy up, otherwise she will shout at me.

Cop-out Friday Post

Boooooooo... I have a horrible cold and nobody in the world is feeling worse than me. Plus I am still totally broke, and our cleaner has had to go down to three hours a week. It is Dickensian. It is worse than being one of those complaining monks in Burma.

The 'About' and 'FAQ' sections on here are looking a bit tired. I have a plan to rewrite them!!! But what should I say/answer? Please leave suggestions in the comments box. I will be grateful.

“Psssstitssasselebrity!!!” I hiss.

“What…?!?”

“Ssslebrity!!! Over there!!!” I whisper furiously.

“What celebrity?!?” replies the LTLP in a loud voice.

I make ‘keep your voice down’ gestures. Being quite at home in the world of celebrities, I am quite blasé by the famous people thing, whereas the LTLP, being a civilian, does not really know how to behave. I do not want her to embarrass herself. It would be like her, in her capacity as a renowned scientist, introducing me to one of her molecules or whatever. I would try not to be overly gushing.

TV’s Richard Park steps out of his car and gazes around the car park, no doubt looking for somebody to criticise.

I jerk my head everso gently towards TV’s Richard Park, but not so much as I look like an idiot who is impressed by meeting celebrities. Nobody approaches him, so he strides out towards the shops presumably in hope of some really bad customer service.

We do not follow him. He is just a person like you or I. I would not even bother writing about him if I did not know that you would be interested.

We wander off to buy chips. He is not in the chip shop. I expect he brought his own packed lunch. They do that sort of thing, you know.